


The Calm of the Sea

by Turtle_ier



Series: The Water [4]
Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, Recovery, References to Depression, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, like a lil bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24343504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtle_ier/pseuds/Turtle_ier
Summary: Posner is at first convinced that Scripps has disappeared off the face of the earth, and after talking it out with Dakin, he's determined to do something about it.Thankfully, Scripps is finally willing to accept some help... eventually.Excerpt:"Adult life was a lot like drowning, a lot like poetry, he supposed. You never knew how it was going to turn out. Even if you could swim, even if you could write, even if you could file taxes or talk to your friends, you never really knew."
Relationships: David Posner/Donald Scripps, Stuart Dakin/David Posner, Stuart Dakin/Donald Scripps
Series: The Water [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1188622
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Winter - A Cold Reception

“...For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.”

John 3:16

Donald Scripps was not a proud man.

In the face of his friend’s problems he managed to remain out of the situation, and if not that, at the very least tried to remain neutral and not get too involved. He could admit that sometimes he slipped and ended up in the thick of it, but ultimately, it was the effort that counted more than whether or not he did. 

What was unique about all this, however, was that despite his best efforts he ended up in the thick of it and thoroughly fucked because of it.

Possibly not the best word choice there, but you get the picture.

So in the horrid early mornings of early December, when the frost of the window mingled with the clammy moisture in the air, Scripps was susceptible to over-thinking it a little. Cocooned in bed, eyes open and looking blankly at the far wall, he considered what may have happened. Subjunctive history. That thing Irwin and Dakin got off talking about (don't think about that, he had to remind himself immediately after thinking about it). 

He wasn't even _that_ into Dakin, and more or less only fancied him because he was there for that purpose. All of the boys could admit, sometimes more freely than others, their attraction to Dakin - if not for his appearance than for his confidence, his assets or ease of control over situations. Dakin forged his own path. He wouldn't let a simple blow to his ego stop his steam-train ways, and Scripps was certain of it. 

In the cold, almost frozen still December morning, Scripps couldn't help but feel a little forgotten. 

Perhaps, he thought, it would be wise to sit in silence for once before he slept. To lie awake for a little while, thinking without writing things down. To accept who he was in the moment without noting it. Afterall, there was only so much his own words could tell him; only so many quotes; only so many phrases and metaphors.

“So, explain the situation again? With detail?”

“I fucked Dakin. I don't exactly regret it, but I don't think Scripps will like it.”

They were walking together, shoulders occasionally brushing against one another (or more accurately, Akthar’s over-the-shoulder bag collided with Posner’s hip, but no one was counting so it didn't matter). It was somewhat sunny out, with light occasionally peeking through the heavy cloud to look down on the world below, before disappearing like a snail into its shell. Akthar was dressed casually, not planning on staying out for too long, but Posner still had a seminar that afternoon and wanted to maintain what appearances he had left after a week of unexplained absence. 

It was a brisk winter day where families and individuals alike were trying to sort out Christmas gifts and food before the schools broke up for the holidays. The air felt thinner and stained with the tarmac of the street, somehow, like the breeze had been laying on the ground all night and had only decided to pick up as daylight broke. 

“And does Scripps know?”

“No.”

Akthar glanced at him. Since coming to university he had cut his hair and upgraded the price of his jackets, but still looked more or less the same. Posner could admit that he looked good, aside from the sceptic facial expression. 

“Don't look at me like that.”

“You literally told Scripps that you were going to solve all his problems and you haven't done anything. _How_ exactly is fucking Dakin going to solve anything?”

“Well, it isn't-”

“Exactly.”

“But! It did solve one of mine.”

They were stopped at a set of lights, waiting for it to go green. A car passed, its tyres making a sucking noise against the wet floor as it went, but only Posner watched it go.

“How?” Akthar asked, sounding like he was afraid of the answer. 

“I don't love him anymore.”

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Well, yes. Also no. I didn't love him for a while since we finished A-level, but I still considered him attractive. You understand?” Akthar nodded, but Posner interrupted before he could talk, “Well, after seeing his, well, his _other side_ , I can conclude that he isn't attractive at all. He’s vindictive, inappropriate, and often quite ugly in what he expects from others. I suspect Scripps is experiencing the same thing - whiplash, almost. Someone we both once saw as attractive and untouchable is as low brow and inexperienced as the best of us. Sometimes as much as the worst, as well.”

Akthar up until this moment had been quiet, but needed to speak up as they crossed the road. “You’re saying he’s normal.” 

He said it in such a way that made Posner physically pause, and he stopped on the corner of the road. “Well, yes.” 

“Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“Posner, I don't know what you're getting at.”

“It seems like nothing, but Scripps might not know it. He might not know Dakin walks among mortal men because he is a mortal man. He’s just as dirty, fowl and human as the rest of us. His whiteness, Christian-ish birth, masculinity, and education status does not put him above the rest of us, nor should they, but it’s attractive once you realise he doesn't know that.”

“You're saying Scripps doesn't know either.”

“Not until recently.”

“Well,” Akthar said, “good on you for letting us all know. All that close study paid off, huh?”

“Oh, fuck _off.”_

Posner shoved him, and Akthar reeled back, laughing. Posner couldn't help but laugh along too, but as they calmed down, an almost uncomfortable silence settled over them. 

“What’s your plan now?”

“Am I supposed to have one?”

Akthar seemed thoughtful, leaning against a telephone pole with one shoulder. “You always seem to,” he settled on saying, “even if it's just to bide your time.”

“Well, Akthar, I think I might just do that.”

“What good will it do?”

“For me? Little. For Scripps, it might mean a lot. He could probably do with some time to consider his thoughts before I stomp back into his life using force. Besides, he’ll probably be back to his normal self sooner rather than later.” 

“Right,” Akthar said, “You’re a philosopher in the making, Pos. Your logic eludes even us educated folk.”

“Rude.” 


	2. Spring - Archipelago

(Posner’s journal - a leather-bound book with neat, straight lines and a space in the margin for doodles or pictures - Friday March 29th, 1985)

_Tried getting in contact with Scripps again since he hasn’t picked up the phone over reading week. This journaling thing is helping with the anxious thoughts, but it can only do so much in the face of a friend seemingly dropping off the face of the earth. It’s almost like he’s been avoiding me (or even Rudge and Akthar too - they haven't heard anything last time I’d asked, which was about a week and a half ago)._

_With the imminent exams, essays and other such delights, I can't help but wonder what he’s getting up to. To not answer his phone implies he’d ignore calls from his mother or granddad, unless he calls them first without the care of seeming over eager. With the academic pressure, I would have assumed that I would see him in the library, at least to check out or return books, but alas, my own (accidental) stakeouts of the history section have proven fruitless._

_Last I heard of someone seeing him was from Lockwood during the winter holidays. He, apparently, saw him at the old corner shop and stopped for a chat. Based on Akthar’s raised eyebrow at the story, I wasn't alone in my doubt that it was ‘just a chat’. I do hope that Scripps isn't falling into the same pitfalls and potholes as I did with Lockwood - using him as a second best, or even a replacement for the real thing. Lockwood doesn't deserve that, but knowing him, he’d probably just sit back and enjoy the ride._

_I don't want to be a broken record (least of all one for New Order) but Scripps’ elusiveness is disturbing and worrying. I should ask mum to do some gossiping and see if Mrs. Scripps will let any details out._

_Almost as elusive as Scripps is Dakin, who, for all intents and purposes, has dropped off the face of the fucking earth. No one, not even Lockwood, has mentioned a sighting. I dare not ask, since I do hold some respect for myself nowadays, but I do wonder. In the most extreme thoughts about those two missing persons I imagine them together, talking to one another instead of anyone else, but if they had worked it out between them then they wouldn't be ignoring the world._

_I suppose, like the meaning to life, we may never know._

Three days passed. 

It was raining, as it does in April, and it felt like some sick joke when the books in Posner’s arms were rattled and tossed to the floor by the shoulder of some stranger. “Oh, shit,” the stranger said in a voice far too similar to be from an actual stranger, “Wait.”

Hair and shoulders soaked from the gentle downpour, Stuart Dakin himself stood in the thin brick-lined alleyway with Posner, and Dakin reached for the book before he had made his realisation. Posner accepted the book from the other, too stunned to say anything at first before he laughed slightly at the absurdity of it all. “Hello,” he settled on saying in lieu of anything else, “Um. How are you?”

“Yeah, not bad thanks.” 

Posner twirled his umbrella, shifting uncomfortably in his overly thick coat. He had thought it would be colder than it actually was, and could feel the smallest of hairs on the back of his neck standing up against the thin layer of sweat. The awkwardness of it, regardless of how ill prepared either of them were for the inevitable confrontation, caught them both off guard. 

“I expected more yelling than this,” Dakin admitted, “And I thought you’d turn up at the flat again rather than doing this in public.” 

“What can I say? Self-control is my strong suit.” 

Dakin went from one foot to the other, and it pained Posner to admit that he looked anywhere other than at Dakin. He noticed, idly, that a pigeon was watching them. 

“How have you been keeping, then?” Dakin hazarded an ask, “You up to much?”

“Well, exam season and all that is keeping me busy. I suspect the same for you.”

“Yes. Very busy.” 

Something about the way he said it made Posner feel like questioning him, but Dakin beat him to it by just admitting instead, “I’ve talked to Irwin.”

“Oh?” Posner said, raising his eyebrows, “Oh really? I didn’t realise, um.” 

“Well, yes, I didn’t tell anyone about it until… just then. I went to see one of his talks but I didn’t know it was him. Or I didn’t when I got the tickets.” 

“How is he?” Posner asked, for lack of anything else to say. A lifetime ago, or what felt like a lifetime ago, he might have found the way Dakin looked to the floor and kicked a rock to be charming. Now, however, he knew the bashfulness wasn't for him. 

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.” 

“Well. Good. Is he staying in Oxford?”

“No, no. He has a flat down in London.”

“Good. Well, good for him, I guess? Does he enjoy it down there?”

“I’m not sure,” Dakin said, “I haven't spoken to him about that yet. We’ve always been more past-orientated. All of us at Clutter’s, I mean.” 

“Yes, well,” Posner paused, lost as of what to say, “We were always more interested in the past than the future. You would think we would have learnt to leave it be by now.” 

Dakin eyed him up and down, and Posner fought the urge to cringe. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose. Although, I doubt I’m the only one intrigued by it.” 

“You’re definitely not.” 

They regarded one another for a moment, looking up and down as if they were each expecting the other to suddenly start an argument, but it came as a surprise when Dakin next decided to speak.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about what happened, you know, before Christmas. I was a prat to you and took advantage of Scripps. I was actually planning on saying sorry to him as well, when I next saw him in person, but the bloke must have fallen off the face of the earth. I haven't seen him since, well, since the… thing. Serves me right not just thinking it through in the moment.” 

It occurred to Posner in that moment how surreal it was to be hearing Dakin of all people apologise. He’d obviously been thinking it over for a while, given the fact that it came across so genuinely, and for that Posner was glad. If Dakin had said anything about him being affected, as in, how it had affected himself, Pos might not have been able to resist the temptation to reel back and slap him across the face - god knew that he had wanted to up until this moment. So then, in the drizzle, holding a collection of books and an umbrella, and with Dakin slowly but surely getting soggier by the moment, he let it go.

“It’s fine,” he said, “I’ve pretty much gotten over it now. But please, do me a favour, if you do find Scripps, apologise? I just hope, well.”

He left the rest unsaid, but Dakin nodded anyway.

“Of course. I’m, uh. I’m off now. I promised to meet a study group soon, but I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah. Be seeing you.” 

And with that, and two polite but tight smiles, Dakin and Posner turned opposite ways and made their way through the brick alleyway, with a weight off their shoulders and a path forward slightly clearer. 

There was still a question on both of their minds, however, which was to do with Scripps. Of course it was to do with Scripps. Was there really someone else in both of their lives who had disappeared without a trace, without a note or mention? Surely by now Scripps would be able to reason with himself (or with God) about how to move forward from that point in his life, unless he had sunk both quickly and deeply into sadness, or worse, depression.

He thought back to his own periods of depression, both in A-level and the first year at university, and considered himself then too. He only got into the terrible stages of his inner self when he’d been alone for long periods, such as when everyone else went home for reading week and he’d been left alone for nine days straight, or when he got behind on work in the bad weather in January and February. He’d been bad, starving himself intentionally of the human interaction in favour of his books and his sleep, and eventually forgoing both in the endless search for _something_ \- some kind of emotion other than the pit in his stomach and the numbness in his fingers - but finding nothing.

Eventually, with many hours of therapy with Joanne and even more hours of policing himself and his thoughts, he’d passed first year with a third and was climbing his way upwards, still with the help of Joanne and his conscious self, and was doing so, _so much_ better.

Scripps hadn’t had the wakeup call yet, and was rapidly on his way to a catastrophic fall. 

Now all Posner had to do was figure out what to do with them both, seeing as this was a totally new situation to both of them. 

There just had to be something he could do. 

Spring arrived, as it does. It brought promises of the future, of long nights and smoke, and exams wrecking the candidates of Oxford though and though, and so with the strain of the urge to do well, he took to the desk like a bird to the wind.

It’s comforting. All of it. The smell of wet ink, the gentle breeze coming from the crack in the window, the way it’s still cold enough to shiver but not enough to freeze, the warming sun on his back; even the weight of the exams pressing his face into the books felt like coming up to air after an hour under water. It felt like he was absorbing the information by just sitting there, embracing the atmosphere created by his desk and his books. 

Though what he hadn't considered were its after effects - the restless sleep, thinking of Napoleon and Shakespeare, of his teachers and Dakin and Lockwood and, obviously, Posner and how he should really stop becoming one with the books and instead maybe talk to them for a little while (a little while couldn't hurt right?), even if only on the phone.

But the idea of confronting his fears and mistakes was daunting enough without the added pressure of essays and whatnot, and so Scripps waited (ever waiting) for the right moment.

It was bound to come sooner than later, right?


	3. Summer - Two Worlds

There wasn't really a name for it back then, Scripps thought when he was older, and the words for it now were more accurate, sure, but didn't really convey the meaning he sought to bring across. 

‘Depression’ was the word. Clinical depression wasn't really a thing until it stopped you from literally functioning or until you tried to hurt yourself, and so it wasn't really applied to people who were ‘bummed out’ in the eyes of the workforce or family and friends. 

Scripps, later in life, only recognised it in Posner because he had a front row seat. He only recognised it in his past self after seeing the same signs in Posner. 

He left for Rome on the 25th of July, 1985, with a small suitcase and a satchel of books in English. He decided, while gripping the armrest in an uneasy take off, he’d figure out what was wrong with him before coming back. Something had to be wrong, and so long as he could figure out what it was, he would be fine. 

“ _Che ore Sono?”_ He stumbled to ask at the taxi desk at the airport, and the woman pointed to the clock on the wall, which ran an hour faster than his watch. “Oh, _grazie._ ”

He had just enough money to rent his studio for three months. He didn't have enough money for much more than a mattress, some kitchen essentials, and a second hand desk-with-chair set. However, he did set aside some money for food, as he had heard from every source available (people, books, friends recounting their own holidays, etcetera) that it was essential, yes, _essential_ , that he eat out as often as possible. Italy was a country of many things, and Rome was its own ecosystem of new and developed ones, forming from the old like fungus from a fallen tree - slow in the moment but seemingly rapid over a long period. 

Scripps supposed that in some ways every city was a bit like London - Old, even ancient in places, and changing fast enough to give a chameleon a run for its money. 

Rome was in some ways known and in some ways not. 

Leaning casually back in the shade of a tree, the old wood of the bench digging into his forearm and armpit, he basked in the warm breeze and watched people mill about below the vast monument of the _Castel Sant’Angelo_ , their clear-cut shapes stark against the old rust-coloured stone. He felt a lot like a lizard on a rock, taking in the details as an artist would, drinking only the atmosphere - parched. 

He’d read up about the castle the night before, his hands stone dry from the dusty air as the noises from the traffic drifted up the side of his building. He had basked then too, in the cool evening air and in the face of knowledge. 

It was originally a tomb built for the emperor of Rome at the time Hadrian, and then turned into a game of add-ons to protect the Pope - probably because he wasn't too popular for sticking his own country in the middle of the city. 

In the present, Hadrian was known mostly for three things - a bloody long wall, a big arch in Greece, and a mausoleum. Some people visited the castle without even knowing that he was an emperor, no doubt, 

Then again, if Hadrian was still about, people would know of him for being a person, like they would with celebrities. Scripps slouched on the bench, his hand resting on his fountain pen and journal, itching to write down something poetic or romantic about the inevitability of time, and all that. But words didn't, couldn't, wouldn't come. Nothing but the sound of people shuffling about in front of the castle and the distant stalls with people trying to sell things.

_Forgotten in time,_

_~~Monuments~~ _ _Moments, remain._

_Alone in ~~the abyss~~ time,_

_Known by items,_

_Achievements, no personality_

_Remains._

It was thirty degrees outside and he, with the tiniest handwriting possible, was scrawling on the back of a postcard. There was a pile of four others on his desk, already written, and only the one in his hands to go. The lamp held a steady stream of light onto his hands, keeping his writing visible where his pen didn't cast a shadow onto it, and painstakingly, he wrote:

_David,_

_In Rome. I know how much you want to visit, but thought a postcard was the next best thing. Let me know when I get back how your teacher training is going. No idea what I’ll do with my summer hol’s yet. Trying to do something about it now but little luck. It’s too hot to think. Hope you're not having the same issue with the heatwave._

_I’m sorry for disappearing on you. Talk again in September? Properly, this time?_

_Don._

He placed the pen on the desk, taking care to lean it on its side so that it didn't roll off, and put the postcard in the pile with the rest of them.

It was dark outside now, the horizon holding the barest semblance of the evening before it disappeared into the night, but even in the confines of the room, Scripps felt like he was crawling out of his own skin, like a butterfly not yet ready to be reborn. The sweat refused to cool on his skin, despite the breeze coming through the balcony, and sleep would not come easy to him that night - he could already tell.

_Forgotten ~~in time~~ ,_

_~~Monuments~~ _ _Moments, ~~remain~~._

_Alone ~~in~~ ~~the abyss~~ ~~time,~~_

_Unknown ~~by achievements~~ ,_

_~~Items~~ _ _, no ~~personality~~ self_

_Remains._

Scripps didn't get close enough to the Colosseum to see inside it, nor to see the four-hour long queue snaking around its outside, but he did lean back in a chair in a cafe up the slope of a nearby incline. It looked like it had been baked white by the sun, with the stones below his seat shined by the shoes of other customers. It was relatively quiet, and he felt like a cheater when he ordered a blood orange juice instead of a coffee. 

Somehow, the forty-degree heat didn't make the sights any less impressive. Imagining the people from thousands of years ago doing much the same as he was then - avoiding the sun and looking at history - was somehow both concerning and welcoming. 

“Are you enjoying the sights?” A voice asked, and Scripps looked up at the waiter. He was tanned and with dark hair. Somehow, though, he looked similar enough to Dakin for Scripps to pause before answering.

“Yes. I’d be a fool not to.” 

The waiter chuckled. “Some only come for the tourist aspect. A thing to check off a list.”

Scripps looked back to the Colosseum before answering. “I’m here for history, mostly. I’m still guilty of buying postcards.” 

“Not guilty at all. I have bought some in the past too.” 

“Are you from Rome?”

“No. Vienna.”

“I don't know any Austrian, I’m afraid. What brought you to Rome?”

The waiter looked over his shoulder, perhaps to make sure his boss wasn't listening or to ensure there were not any other customers in need, before saying with some flippancy, “Not much. I didn't know what I was doing and wanted some change. I spoke enough Italian and English to get employed.” He shrugged, “I haven’t gone back yet.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough. That’s just how it goes. I miss home, but it’s not too bad. I can't imagine how you must feel.” 

“No,” Scripps said, watching an eagle or buzzard of some kind soar over the Colosseum, “No. It’s a lot different here.” 

And stumbling home that night, rich with wine and food, with the waiter - Lukas - on his neck, Scripps realised how truly different it was there, and how different he had become.

_Dakin,_

_Don't know your current work/home address (mum said you were in London) so I’m sending it to your mum’s. I’ve somehow found my way to Rome. All roads lead here, but I didn't realise it was so literal. I hope life finds you well. It finds me in… interesting times. I thought the image of the Capitoline Wolf would resonate with you somewhat. I am yet to see it in person._

_~~I just wanted to say. I hope you know. Best wishes.~~ _

_I’m sorry for ditching you without talking about it. I also want to let you know I forgive you for ditching me without talking about it. We’re a right bunch, aren’t we?_

_We should talk again,_

_Scripps._

The Capitoline Wolf was a disappointment, which was rather ironic considering it depicted the founders of Rome. It hung at the back of the Balistica on a pedestal that must have been around ten feet high, and was the first marker for the steps down to the Roman Forum, but the actual statue itself looked like something Scripps could have strapped to his back and called a fancy bag. Needless to say, it was far smaller than he had expected.

But lounging against a wall nearby, with one of the steadily running water fountains that dotted Rome’s streets by his side, he had to admit that it was at least a fairly pretty statue, and one with a lot of meaning. It was funny how something so small could hold such a great weight. 

There was also the larger depiction inside the Capitoline Museum, rather than the one that he was looking at outside, but he didn't know which one was the original. For all he knew the one in New Zealand could have been the first, although, now that he thought about it, that probably wasn't the case.

The heat still hadn't let up by the time he got back to his studio, and while he could appreciate its persistence, all he really wanted to do was praise the shower for being able to go from scorching hot to freezing cold without much room in between. After a whole day of sweat appearing, drying, then reappearing on his back, a hot and cold shower was really the best thing for him.

But then, afterwards, he dressed, combed his hair (slightly upwards, but without any gel. He’d grown tired of having a fringe), and grabbed his journal and pen. He was fully intending to act on the only piece of advice he had heard prior to coming to Italy - eat out as much as possible - and he found himself in a cafe/restaurant on one of the side streets of the Vatican, close enough to feel its presence but far enough to no longer see it.

There were not many people in there, but a few of the tables had only one or two people on, with relatively few only being seated for drinks. With the dark wood furnishings and the slats covering the windows at the back of the restaurant, Scripps wrote sporadically as he waited for his meal, and he thought around the glass of some sweet red wine about what it would be like when he returned home - not necessarily to England, but to his family, and hopefully, his friends. 

_Rome is more than I would ever want when it comes to places to live._

_Her streets are never empty, and her voice never silenced. The people who live in Rome will never have as much of an impression as the city itself. Many a great artist, writer or person has come from Rome, but never will their work be heard for as long or as widely as the city itself._

_It is in some ways comforting to think that I am really just a speck, passing through, doing my part to wear the cobbles flatter and move the water elsewhere, as even my greatest mistakes, and works I may publish but may not be happy with, will be forgotten one day among the people, the streets, and the veins of the city._

_It may strike some (and certainly me, prior to coming here) that this kind of thinking is wrong, or strange, or worrying, but really, it’s not. Is to accept who we are in time so wrong? To admit that I am not Shakespeare such a terrible thing to say? It means I don't have to worry about being remembered - could you imagine if this journal were to be the only piece of media from the 1980s left in a thousand years' time? Now that would be embarrassing (and rather concerning. Where did Star Trek go?)._

_Admitting that I and the things I make will not be here forever, or set in stone, or written on the walls, allows me to live in the moment, and make less important decisions more often and with more freedom. I don't have to concern myself with filling books with only pretty things, or worry that no one will know me. Obviously if I die and those I am close to now forget me, that would be awful, but I shouldn't pretend that my great great grandchildren will know my story by heart or my name dearly._

_The inevitability of time, I suppose._

_Burial of the dead, and all that._

_I say, when the time comes, when Venus kills all doves and Anubis appears before the world, when the kraken no longer sleepeth and the tortoise holds Earth tips, and when God prepares the stamp book of judgement, ready to apply ink to papers of damnation, I say let it come._

His risotto arrived, and with nothing left to say, he closed his journal.

Posner read the postcard, then flipped it over to look at the picturesque shot of the Trevi Fountain, with its steps void of the tourists and street vendors which you would assume would be littered around the place like ants on a half sucked sweet. _Tourist trap,_ he thought, _a two hundred and fifty-year-old marvel has been reduced to a tourist trap._

Perhaps his bitterness came from the fact that Scripps hadn't spoken to him in eight months, or from the fact that Scripps hadn't spoken to him in eight months but still knew about the teacher training course he was doing. It was probably their mums talking, but nevertheless he felt peeved at how Scripps knew more than he did.

But the little piece of card did still give Posner some hope - it meant that Scripps was at least doing _something_ , even if he didn't think it was much and felt lost in the process, but hopefully it still meant that he was on the mend. He wished, a little bitterly, that he had the money to take a summer trip to Rome in the vague disguise of therapy, but Scripps _had_ always been the one who wanted to write about foreign places and old things, while he had always looked up to Hector.

Posner, with no uncertainty, did not want to be Hector, but the idea of passing on knowledge like it was written in his will, like it was an heirloom or some sweet given from the old to the young, _that_ was the appealing part. 

_Pass it on,_ Posner thought again, _but not in the same way he did._


	4. Autumn - Checkmate

_Rain poured against the window, making a heavy background noise to set the scene for the afternoon. Having only just come inside, Lockwood’s hair was soaked through, dripping onto his school blazer and soaking his clothes further. He took it off, shaking it slightly before putting it over the back of his desk chair._

_“We’re alone in the house, Pos. You don't have to be nervous.”_

_Posner was perched on the corner of the bed, his legs pressed together and clothes dry. He, unlike Lockwood, owned a coat, and was fairly unaffected by the chilled September downpour. He still looked nervous and, although not quite a drowned rat, almost shrewd. Even though he was of age, Posner couldn't help but feel like they were still too young for this. Willing, but still too young._

_“Are you sure you’re ok with this? I know I was a little forward, but I didn't know how else to ask.”_

_“Sure,” Lockwood said, easily, “If I wasn't up for it I wouldn't have agreed. It’s always easier when you’re up front about these things.”_

_Posner laughed, “You should tell Scripps that. He always was one to talk himself in circles about these things.”_

Posner was no longer the A-level boy who cowered under the light of recognition and flourished when asked to do something that no one else would dare to, but instead was an Oxford student. He lived and breathed poetry, would move like someone of worth, with his chin high and his face relaxed. He was no longer hopelessly depressed (although some days his therapist would argue otherwise), no longer struggling (again, arguable with his therapist), and no longer invisible to the people around him. Most of the time. 

So when he walked through the covered bazaar to his favourite fresh fruit stall late that afternoon, and with plans to then visit the freshly ground coffee stall opposite should he have the time before his study break ended, Posner didn't exactly expect to see a familiar mop of blonde-brown hair perusing his favourite second-hand book stall. 

Before he could stop himself, Posner spoke aloud.

“Scripps.”

And, miracle of all miracles, in the flesh, there he was.

He looked tired, like he felt out of place among the used books and bustling people, but his hair seemed healthy and his skin no less ruddy than it was the last time Posner had seen him. While it had only been nine months (and nine months ago, that timeframe would have seemed like a lifetime, or at least the longest period they’d ever spent apart) Scripps looked older, like he had seen the world and discovered its secrets since being to Rome, but Rome was not the world, and so Scripps’ aged appearance must have been something else.

“Pos. David,” Scripps said, and without a moment spared, they hugged. 

It was like going out into a sunny day after spending weeks inside, with Posner burying his nose in Scripps’ coat and inhaling the smell of fresh air and barley, like when they were kids. And the warm hands on his ribs lifted him in a way that nothing ever could, giving him a similar feeling to when he was welcomed back home from uni in first year after his four-month stint away, after his mum found him at the train station while she was fighting back tears of joy. 

“You’re back,” Posner said, pulling away. Scripps still rested his hands on Posner’s shoulders, and he found he didn't mind the touch. He should be furious, he knew, but couldn't find himself to be. He was too relieved. 

“I am. ‘ _I found Rome built of bricks; I leave her clothed in marble_ _.’”_

“Shut up. Don't you dare quote at me when we’re having a moment.”

“Sorry,” At least then Scripps at least had the sense to look at least a little guilty, “I don't know what to say. I’m too used to writing and it feels weird being back.”

“It does feel weird talking,” Posner said, and didn't want to admit that it felt weirder doing it in such a public place. Weren’t reunions supposed to be romantic, private affairs? 

“How are things? How are _you_?” Scripps asked, finally letting go of Posner’s shoulders and instead just smiling at him and moving to his side. They walked, or really, ambled further through the market.

It was starting to get quieter out now, with a few of the stalls closed already and some others just beginning to shut their doors, but nevertheless Posner felt at least a little awkward about taking up so much space in the alleyways between them. The rain was still falling outside, pattering on the roof and being dragged through the bazaar like the memories of somewhere in the past, as a reminder of what was and what would await them when they left. But looking at Scripps at that point, it was frighteningly easy to leave the rest of the world behind and focus on him.

He recognised the feeling, the ‘ _oh shit’_ that he had never felt with Dakin because he hated himself and didn't care if it killed him, but he had felt it since with others, in fleeting moments that never quite made it into anything more real. But he felt it now, and it felt like what he imagined standing on honey would be like - a gradual sinking in something oh so sweet.

Scripps spoke up again. “Would you-? Um. Would you be interested in talking? Like over coffee? Or even at mine, or at the pub, if it’s open. I’m not actually sure what time it is.”

“Around five, I think,” Posner said, and then checking his watch he reaffirmed, “Yeah, it’s just gone five. There might not be many coffee shops open, now, so, um. You could come to mine? I have tea, which I know you’re a fan of.”

“Northerner at heart, me,” Scripps smiled, “And yeah. We can do yours, if you’re up for it. I’ll even make the teas.”

“It’ll take more than one of your perfect cups of tea to make it up to me.”

“Two, then. Two teas.”

The clock on the bedside table read in bright red letters, ‘18:30’, and cast an eerie glow over the wall. Aside from the single green LED in the TV, it was the only light in the darkness of Posner’s flat, with the gentle hum of the fridge accompanying it. 

Then, light. 

The door that connected to the hallway opened, casting extended shadows over the floor of the flat. Shuffling in, Posner took care in removing his soaked jacket, while Scripps took a moment to remove his wet shoes, before shuffling through to the kitchen to make good on his promise of tea. Posner shivered, glancing out into the rainy night, almost to assure himself that no one was about, before closing the door with a soft but final click. He flicked on the dingy hallway light. 

He could hear the drip of the rain falling from the eaves of the roof in a three-note chime, like a forgotten melody from a time prior that reminded him of this moment. But he could still hear Don fucking about in his kitchen, so now wasn't the time to dwindle on the little unimportant things in that moment. He was certain that if he thought back to now he wouldn't remember the song in his head but the mood that came with it. And fuck, it was hard to describe music when he himself had so little talent for it. Singing was always more of his thing.

What he could describe instead was the deep and bedraggled feeling of weariness that hung from his shoulders as a phantom weight, replacing the previous heaviness of his sodden jacket. Who would have known that emotional bonding exhausted someone so thoroughly? Certainly not him. 

“I’m sorry,” He found himself saying, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Scripps was still fiddling with the buttons on his coat. “I kinda sprung that conversation on you when you were unaware.”

Scripps, finally pulling off his coat, stood upright again and sighed. He brought one hand to his eyes, rubbing them. He hadn't noticed how tired Scripps looked, the skin under his eyes a dark shade of skin. 

“I… feel the need to be sorry too.” Scripps began, pulling his hand away from his eyes, “I know this is long overdue, and I was going to say this when we were walking back but I couldn't find the words,” He laughed, almost bitterly, “Truth be told, I still don't think I can. I wish it was as easy for me to be sincere as you always sound, but you're going to have to take my word for it when I say that I’m woefully out of practice.”

Scripps paused a moment before he continued, “I’m sorry for disappearing on you. And after seven or eight or whatever months of silence I shouldn't have just, you know, _sent a postcard._ ” He spat the last bit out like he was offended at his past self for even thinking that it was a good idea, and then went on to say, “I hope that… you know, we can continue being friends. I don't want to disappear on you again.”

For a moment, perhaps stunned, Posner said nothing. Then, shyly, he smiled, “Well. Thank you. I hope we can repair this as well. I do forgive you, you know. You went through a lot back there and I hope that you’re on the mend.”

“I’m working on it.”

Without asking, and almost like _he_ was the one that lived there and not Pos, Scripps started the process of putting on the kettle and taking out a couple of mugs, pulling the familiar white, red and green box from the cupboard along with the sugar (but that was only for Posner - Scripps never could stand sweetened tea), before he took a moment to wander to the single window in the kitchen. Outside, rain ran down the surface in rivets, but it struck Posner that it seemed like the rain was only doing that for the sake of suggesting that it was necessary, like it was trying to earn its place rather than blend in with the background. It was too early in the year for thunder, but if some had decided to grumble through then, it would have been rather apt. 

“How’s your family?” Posner asked, and wished he hadn't. It was Scripps that he was supposed to be focusing on, not Mr and Mrs Scripps.

Like he could sense Posner’s regret, Scripps snorted. “Fine,” he said, “they were a bit peeved that I went off into the ‘wilds of Europe,’ as they praised it, instead of getting a job or an apprenticeship or something. But other than that, they’re fine. Same old Sheffield and all that.”

“That’s good,” Posner nodded along, “They can hardly be upset at you for finding your place in the world though, can they? Besides, you have better things to tell me all about. How was it?”

“It was fine,” Scripps said, and as the kettle clicked off he busied himself with pouring the water.

“And?”

“I didn't really know what I was doing, but yeah, I enjoyed it. Took a few photos, but they’re at my place. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise. What was your favourite thing to see?”

“Honestly?” Scripps paused and looked over to Posner, with a look on his face that looked almost like he didn’t want to say what he did next. “I’m not really sure if I enjoyed any of it. No, wait. That was a silly thing to say. I just don’t think it is what I was looking for in the end. All I did when I was there was… feel invisible.”

During his confession, he’d pulled the milk from the fridge and added it to their drinks, before handing one of the mugs - the one with the rather unfortunate looking snowmen on the side - over to Posner. Then Scripps continued.

“The whole time I was there, that one quote kept playing over and over in my head like a broken rec- no, that’s too cliché. It was like that scene we had to do in Hector’s class. Do you remember?”

He did remember. He remembered having to do it over and over again because he kept flubbing the last line.

“What quote?” He asked, almost morbidly curious.

Scripps put on his ‘reading a quote’ voice, standing a little straighter as he did, “‘ _B_ _eauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.’_ ”

And Posner nodded, understanding.

“I felt invisible, and-”

“I see you.”

Scripps stopped, and Posner repeated himself. “I see you. I know it seems weird to say, but when you were talking about how you felt invisible, and out of place, I just want you to know… You’re not that to me. I see you, and even if you felt invisible, or still feel invisible, I see you. If you want, any time, any reason why, you can just, you know, ask for me to see you and I will.”

“Pos.”

“My place is basically yours too, anyway. You’re always welcome.”

Scripps stared at him for a long moment, like he was looking for any sign of mockery or lie on Posner’s face, and he had to force himself to look as open and reassuring and _real_ as possible, and it broke his heart that Scripps had to hear this in the first place. He needed to know that there was someone other than his eccentric mother on his side here, and he needed to know that Posner was willing to be that person.

“Thank you,” Scripps said with an air of finality. It was like he had nothing else to say, but the darkness in his eyes said everything, holding the universe in their irises and its meaning in the pupils. Scripps was no poet, but Posner saw poetry in those eyes, in his dingy kitchen as the night grew dark and the rain and mood grew heavy. It was easy to see poetry, as they got lost in tracing the grout between the tiles with their eyes. It was easy to see poetry in the red numbers on the microwave, as it announced to them that the day was over. 

Posner finally picked up his tea and looked into the dark liquid, seeing himself in the reflection. He didn't look tired, per say, but worn out. Scripps could probably relate.

“‘ _My nerves are bad tonight_ … _Stay with me._ ’” he quoted.

“‘ _Speak to me_.’”

“‘ _I never know what you are thinking_.’”

“Only good things, Pos. Only good things.” 

Somewhere, distantly, a bell tolled. Shivering silently, they shuffled to take off their half-wet clothes in the near darkness of the flat. Just in trousers now, Posner dumped their combined clothing in the washing basket by his bedroom door, and joined Scripps in staring at the mass of duvets and pillows on his bed. The curtains, although they were closed, did not stop the light from being cast down onto the rumpled sheets. Not for the first time, Posner wished he had a double bed. 

“I don't know if I can bring myself to sleeping on the floor,” Scripps whispered, his voice tight like he thought he was asking too much.

Posner was too tired to argue his side, and instead grabbed Scripps’ wrist and pulled back the covers, dragging the other man into the sheets without saying anything at all.

Oddly, there was no protest, and Scripps obediently followed. 

They lay, too close, too quiet, for an endless moment. But then, with a single cold hand, Scripps rested the weight of the earth on Posner’s hip, and all that was left unsaid was forgotten. 

He didn't want to die, he knew that now, and knew what drowning felt like from when he’d gone under at the seaside when he was five. He remembered the salt water filling his mouth and nose, the sting in his limbs and throat from the cold, and the wicked, headache-like burn that spread over his body when he finally re-emerged

He knew what drowning felt like, with the seaweed tangled around his legs and the impossible blackness below him. He knew what it was like afterwards, with people rushing to his side as he vomited the water, still struggling to catch his breath in the aftermath and choking on the sensation of there being something in his throat and mouth when there wasn't anything there at all. He knew.

Scripps was no poet, but he knew what drowning felt like. 

Adult life was a lot like drowning, a lot like poetry, he supposed. You never knew how it was going to turn out. Even if you could swim, even if you could write, even if you could file taxes or talk to your friends, you never really knew. 

Scripps knew what drowning felt like when Dakin, with all his unknown motivation and his give and take, took with all the gusto of someone who had never heard the word no. He didn't even know if Dakin liked that evening they had spent together. 

And Scripps had been hopeless, treading water, sinking.

Now that he was back in Oxford, Scripps knew that he had to seek out Stuart, perhaps using Posner as a sort of guide to find him, or re-treading his steps and talking to mutual friends. He wasn't entirely sure what he would say, but he hoped that Dakin would be different. Something, deep down, suggested that very little was the same in any of them.

Scripps was never a poet, Posner never got what he wanted, and Dakin was always an issue. And in the morning - always in the morning - he would need to figure it out.

Scripps was never a poet, but on that unusually cold September night, with his hand on Posner’s hip so that his warmth could seep into his very bones and fingertips and toes, the sound of the water dripping from the eaves, and the distant impression of the Christ Church Cathedral bells chiming for England, he did feel very poetic. He felt simultaneously like he could live forever, sleep forever, or disappear into the wayward night among the bracken, living in the unknown, forever. 

Being with Posner, in that life-long moment, he was drowning in the feeling of being capable of anything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Psst. If you liked this, please let me know with comments, bookmarks or kudos ;) it really helps me out!)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear lord it is finished.  
> Three years later, and it's finished.  
> I intended for this final bit to be longer, but after it was in WIP hell for two years, including two drafts being totally scrapped and plot points being reworked constantly, it's here. It can finally join the pile I like to call, "If I dont post this now, I never will."  
> If you're curious, the subheadings (checkmate, two worlds, etc) come from the adventure mode in Dont Starve. I felt the moods were similar and went for it :) 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: https://turtle-ier.tumblr.com
> 
> Quotes:  
> I found Rome built of bricks; I leave her clothed in marble. - Caesar Augustus  
> Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible. - Oscar Wilde, A Picture of Dorian Gray  
> My nerves are bad tonight… Stay with me, Speak to me, I never know what you are thinking. - TS Eliot, The Wasteland


End file.
